Beggars
by LW107
Summary: CB oneshot. “What's the magic word, B?” he whispered. But she couldn't say it; she couldn't utter the one little word that he wanted to hear. Blair Waldorf was not a beggar, she reminded herself.


**A/N: Just a little fluff...**

--

Blair is _not _a beggar. Begging is undignified, it is beneath her; not to mention it is completely _unnecessary_ when your last name just happens to be Waldorf. Well, it's unnecessary except during instances when your counterpart's last name just happens to be Bass. During those occasions, apparently, all bets are off.

--

She groaned, her eyes rolling toward the ceiling. "I'm going to fucking _kill _you, Chuck," she seethed.

He smirked, triumphant, his teeth nipping at the skin on the inside of her thigh as she rocked her hips toward his mouth. So close; so _far_. "Really?" he grinned. "You're going to _kill _me?" He grabbed her calf languorously, running his hand along its smoothness before resting her leg over his shoulder, giving himself a better view. "And how do you plan to do that, Waldorf? Are you going to _beat_ me with your _Birkin_? Perhaps _jab _me with your _Jimmy_ Choo's?"

Her eyes narrowed as she tightened her leg around the back of his neck. He was mocking her, the _motherchucker_, his eyes goading as his lips held that infuriating grin. "Your alliteration skills are astounding," she snapped. She sounded bitter and irritated as she cursed her own labored breathing, the trembling of her voice leaving him snickering. She grabbed a fistful of his hair, _yanking_, bringing his mouth closer to where she needed it to be. "Stop wasting my time, Basshole. Get to it."

He loved it when she got like this, all feisty and demanding. Her grip on his hair tightened, jerking impatiently. He cocked his head, expelling a sigh that left her shivering when his warm breath hit her right where it counted the most. "Get to _what_, exactly?" he replied, sneering coyly.

Annoyance washed over her. No way; _not _happening. She wasn't giving in, not to this particular game he was trying to initiate. She hadn't been raised by Eleanor Waldorf, hadn't spent summer afternoons attending etiquette classes, to develop into anything other than the dignified lady that she was. Which, _okay_, might not be the easiest argument to make given the circumstances, not with Chuck's lips hovering over the junction between her legs, one of her hands fisted in his hair as the other desperately clutched at the Egyptian cotton sheets. But _still, s_he was a lady nonetheless, and ladies refused to talk dirty.

She groaned, pouting. "You know what I'm talking about, Chuck. Stop being such a dick."

He laughed richly, allowing his hands to grip her hips, pressing her into the mattress. Keeping her still; imprisoning her against his bed. He loved it when she cursed, appreciated that it was usually only he who could drive her over that edge. He was leering above her, his eyes narrowed. "Ask nicely, princess, and perhaps I'll take your request into consideration."

His lips dropped then, moved flush against her, his mouth fiery against the soft skin at the center of her thighs. It was brief, the gesture teasing to the point of cruelty, and then Chuck was moving away, grinning as she moaned in protest. She bucked her hips toward his mouth, biting out another curse when they refused to move against his restrictive grip. "For Christ's _sake_, Chuck!"

He shook his head, clucking his tongue in disapproval. "Tsk, tsk, Miss Waldorf." He tightened his grip on her hips, almost punishing. "Where are your manners?"

Her pulse was racing with desire, her heart thumping within her chest. She scowled, meeting his gaze with unwavering eyes. "Have I ever told you how much I _detest _you?"

He shrugged, flicking his thumb lazily over her center, once, _twice. _He grinned when she bit her lip, chuckled when she failed to suppress a moan. "You might have mentioned it at some point."

It was a game they played often, a test of who could torture the other with the most success. So far, she acknowledged grudgingly, she was definitely losing tonight's battle. "Either make yourself useful, Bass," she demanded, "or let me go." It was said between gritted teeth, her cheeks flushed with anger. "I'm rapidly losing my patience."

His lips curled mischievously, his fingers splayed against the inside of her thighs, spreading her legs further. "What's the magic word, B?"

She couldn't say it; she couldn't utter the one little word that he wanted to hear. She _wouldn't_. Blair Waldorf was not a beggar, she reminded herself. "If you don't get me off right now, Bass, so help me God, your balls will be bluer than a fucking Tiffany's box."

No, Blair Waldorf certainly was not a beggar; she was a _bitch_.

His lips twitched as his grip tightened against her waist. Tongue darting out, he tasted her heat, a preview so quick and unexpected that she yelped, her body jerking against his hands. "What's the magic word, Blair?" he pressed, smirking at the color that flooded her cheeks. "Every five year old can say it," he taunted. "Why can't you?"

She groaned, biting her lip as she shot him a glare. "_Goddamnit_, Chuck!"

Snickering, he shook his head. "Nice try, princess, but you're not even _close_," His mouth landed against her hipbone, his teeth sinking into her skin to test it's salty flavor. She moaned, her hips still straining against his grasp, and he sneered in response. "On second thought, perhaps you are close." He edged himself further inside her legs, his lips so near her center that he could feel her pulsating heat against his skin. "_Are_ you, Waldorf?" he whispered, grinning as her muscles trembled beneath his palms. "Are you close?"

"Fuck you," she panted. She was breathless, her body tingling as his whispers hit the warmth between her thighs. "I hate you _so_ much."

He lifted his eyebrows in acknowledgement, smug and calculating. "Ditto."

She stared him down. He met her stare with a challenging smirk.

And apparently they were at a standstill.

Guns drawn.

Cards on the table.

Blair Waldorf shaking so much, she was sure that she was developing some sort of sexual epilepsy.

Clearly he was the winner; he had backed her into a corner like that champion chess player that he was. She was reasonably sure that there were only two options left: come right now or _die_.

She groaned, rolling her eyes. _ "Fine_!" she snapped. "I'm saying please, _okay_? _Please _fuck me, you motherchucking Basshole!"

It turns out that Blair Waldorf is a beggar after all.

–

It was a Tuesday morning when she decided to exact her revenge. Apparently Chuck never got the memo that no one fucks with Blair Waldorf and escapes unscathed.

She started her game at the closing of the school's chapel service, flirting across the aisle in between the Nicene Creed and the school's anthem.

It was her mission that day to lure him in. She flirted. She teased. She bared the nape of her neck.

And not surprisingly, he was easier to take down than a Canal Street hooker, her game ultimately coming to a head that very afternoon. It ended with Chuck backed inside an abandoned storage closet, his khaki pants around his ankles and his chest rising against bated breath. Blair smirked, licking her lips as he muttered the very words that she needed to hear. "For fuck's sake, Blair," he groaned, eying her hand as it hovered over his straining crotch. "Stop being such a tease."

She pursed her lips, smiling as she peered at him through her batting eyelashes. "What's the magic word, Chuck?"

He rolled his eyes; gritted his teeth. If she wanted to play that game, _fine._ He wasn't above asking her nicely. "_Please,_" he uttered, his voice strained. When she giggled at his plea, hesitating, a huff escaped him as his hips rocked toward her hand. "God, come _on_. I fucking said it. "

She glowed with triumph, feeling victorious as she dragged her fingertips across the length of his shaft. Her touch was gentle and feather-like, causing him to shudder, clenching a fist at his side. She smiled lazily, shifting her eyes back to his crotch as a smile stretched across her lips. "I guess I was right," she drawled, smirking as she dropped her hand from his length. "They're bluer than a fucking Tiffany's box."

And his mouth fell open, his eyes wide as a momentary silence flooded the room.

Her touch had been quick, she acknowledged; teasing to the point of cruelty. A signature move that she'd learned from the Basstard himself. An eye for an eye; that was her motto. She'd learned it from the Bible; surely it's what Jesus would do.

She was grinning as she walked away, ignoring the string of curses hurled at her retreating figure.

Perhaps she didn't mind being a beggar after all, because as it turns out, when it comes to Blair Waldorf, Chuck Bass is a beggar, as well.

–

Hope you enjoyed! Happy V-day, darlings. XOXO :)


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